Tuesday, 31 January 2017

I've got some time off at the moment while I wait for my next project to start, so another post already and some more art. This time in the form of a lovely old original sheet music book from 1923 which I bought for just a few quid last week. I only wanted it for the front cover as I love
the typography and the very simple graphic image. Also, there's something about it being nearly 100 years old.

Maybe you remember seeing clips of ancient Felix The Cat
cartoons on The Old Grey Whistle Test?My big sister used to watch it at its peak in the '70s, eager for appearances by Focus, Rory Gallagher and the like and, although I was too young to stay up with her, I'm sure there were times when I couldn't sleep and may have been allowed to watch a little too; my memories of it seem inextricably linked to that era. But even in later versions of the programme I'm sure this was still a device they used. I
can’t specifically recall any of the songs they did it with, but there was
always some element of them that worked with the animation, like Felix hammering a nail into a plank to the rhythms of Bob Marley & The Wailers or something. Seem to remember they also used scenes from the 1902 film A Trip To The Moon / Le Voyage Dans Le Lune....

This is one of the Felix cartoons (but without the addition of OGWT's choice of music), only the first five minutes unfortunately, but it gives the idea as it’s chock full of great
visual tricks and deceptive surrealism – so simple and so clever at the same time. I love
this kind of thing... and again, the fact that it's nearly 100 years old.

Kind of appropriate for this cold weather too, barely a day has gone by lately when I'm not having to don my parka to go in the garden to break the ice on the birdbath.

The inside of the music booklet is very endearing visually too (if you skip past the overtly racist reference/word in one
verse, I know it's just an unfortunate reflection of the attitudes of the time. Although... well...what kind of horrendous prejudiced times are we living in now?)

One other thing caught my
eye - an ad in the back for another title, which is apparently:

“a lesson in song. The truest
story ever told. An appealing musical
sermon that has won the commendation of press and pulpit throughout the nation…”

Sunday, 29 January 2017

He reminded me of someone from a different era – like that
early ‘70s art scene that permeated my childhood, the one with bearded men and
batik throws. It was as if he had been plucked from that
setting and that time and placed in the present without having traversed the
interim years. Wild black hair, second-hand velvet jacket,
the huge rubber plant in the flat, chipped stoneware bowls, Leonard Cohen and Frank Zappa on C90s. Thirty years' worth or more of magazines, mostly already cut-up ready for
use, on every available surface. The smell of paint mingling with the smell of mildew and recently
baked herring. And his art everywhere, on every wall and piled up on the floor: works in progress, finished pieces, huge canvasses, boxed constructions from reclaimed household objects, book-like collaged miniatures, pertinent words scrawled in inky black spidery script. He taught me about the
artists he loved and who inspired him - Kurt Schwitters and Rauschenberg, Cy
Twombly and Duchamp – well, so much Art.
He always spelled Art with a capital A.
He said it with one too. I'll be honest - he frustrated me at times, his life was messy, his choices often unwise, but friendship endured.

Well, it would have been his 58th birthday today. Sadly he was the second of two of my friends
who died last year, and his death was most unexpected, so it still feels a
little unreal.

But I don’t want this to be a sad post, there is enough
misery in the world and I need to keep myself upbeat.

Instead I’ll celebrate his birthday by sharing some of his work, now hanging on new walls in different
homes. Isn't this the lovely thing about Art? - it lives on.

Saturday, 21 January 2017

I’m kind of thinking they do, judging by the amount of books
I get to half-read while other parts of my body do different things. If it’s not too much information, it’s through having a healthy digestive system that lately I’ve managed to cover whole chunks of the
Morrissey Autobiography, Bill Bryson’s
‘Little Dribbling’ and ‘Going To Sea In A Sieve’ by Danny Baker. All out of sequence, though – ends before
beginnings, forewords halfway through and simultaneous middle chapters – I’ll never be able to enter Mastermind with any
of the above as a chosen specialist subject because I’d get all muddled
up. Fortunately Mastermind isn’t on my
bucket list but I still fantasise about specialist subjects – don’t we all? Anyway, like a disjointed dream, somewhere in
the back of my mind Bill Bryson and Morrissey have morphed into one and are
travelling around Britain writing a fanzine.

Our books tend to migrate to the bathroom (where our only toilet
is) in almost ghostly ways. I’m not sure quite how they end up there, on the
windowsill, on the little wobbly stool or tucked in among the towels – some
books that I hardly remember even owning in the first place. I thought we’d got rid of theDoctor Who hardback
ages ago; I’d forgotten all about Kraals and Mechonoids - now I’m up to
speed.

So visiting our loo is like
visiting a library with random shuffle.
One week The Doctor, next week The
Haynes Manual for the Fender Stratocaster.
That one didn’t hold my interest so much but for a while Mr SDS could
regularly leave the smallest room with some new nugget of info about the
floating tremolo or whatever. I’m
afraid I could only give a Gallic shrug in response, still, at least he was
happy.

Anyway, I wonder how widespread the books and toilet combo is. I grew up in a house full of books, although
they weren’t upstairs in the bathroom
where the pink suite was grounded by deep purple carpet tiles - deep purple! - carpet tiles! - and we had goldfish to entertain us
instead. (The goldfish must’ve found us entertaining
too - what a view they had from their thigh-level tank at the end of the bath.)
However, the downstairs loo (or 'cloakroom' as it was politely called) - little more than a cupboard really - provided plenty of light reading including this:

and this:

and sometimes my Mum's John Noble mail order catalogue.

That was a little too heavy and floppy to handle easily, especially when otherwise occupied, but my Mum’s logic could be questionable at the best
of times. (She once cast a replica of my
Dad’s head in bronze, actual size and
complete with his short-lived beard, and displayed it on the sideboard. All I can say is thank god it wasn't in the loo).

Not my Dad's head

When clearing out my Aunt and Uncle’s house last year I was
happy just to browse the spines of the old paperbacks on their own designated
shelf in the loo – poetry books, classics, Penguins – the tiny room had become a
place of learning and escape, a tranquil retreat, even if the seating choice was limited. It was nice to think of them being avid loo-readers, and she a retired
GP too. Which leads me to wondering if there
is ever a question of hygiene? According
to the Director of the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, there is
what you might call a ‘theoretical’ risk
but it’s not very big - just don’t
forget to wash your hands. And so I've concluded: yes, it’s okay to read books in the
loo.

Monday, 16 January 2017

I try to cover some diverse topics on here where I can: art, music, creepy crawly creatures, toffee apples, etc. But I don't think I've ever written about Andy Warhol

nor Madonna

nor Sonic Youth

So I set myself a challenge.

When I think of Andy Warhol – and I suppose it’s inevitable –
but one of the first things I think of is a big yellow banana.

And there is even a picture out there of Madonnawith a big
yellow banana so that’s two out of the above three in one go.

(While I’m
on the subject of Andy Warhol I'd just like to use this opportunity to show a couple of lesser
known album covers of his in which I find his pen and ink illustrations really fresh
and charming. Being early pieces from 1958 these are quite different to
the boldly coloured screen print imagery perhaps most associated with
him now.

Lovely, aren't they? But I digress...)

Now, Sonic Youth..... When I think of Sonic Youth I think of New York.

There is even a French album called '(Les Inrockuptibles présentent) Le New York d'Andy Warhol' (if you say it out loud, it sounds great!) and Sonic Youth feature on it, so that’s also
two out of the above three in one go.

Great cover pic too (love Edie Sedgwick).

Madonna....? When I think of Madonna, I think not only of pointy bras but also of Into The Groove, which
was a big hit in 1985, right in the middle of my stint working in a record shop, and I’m sure many dozens of copies must have passed through my
hands in exchange for half a crown (or whatever it was they cost in those days, I honestly can't remember - I'd take a stab at about £1.20 but could be completely out...?)

There is even a cover version of Into The Groove, by a Sonic Youth
side project, with Andy Warhol art on the sleeve.

Aha!

Three out of three!

In 1986, Sonic Youth borrowed Madonna’s surname to form Ciccone Youth with
Mike Watt of the Minutemen/fIREHOSE, and they released one single and one album. I think they had a
bit of an obsession going on with Madonna and the letter y because they
featured the former on the cover of their
album (an enlarged, tone-reduced Xerox of her face which apparently she was
fine about), and then titled it The Whitey Album, whilst their version of Into the
Groove became Into The Groovey.

Ciccone Youth: The Whitey Album sleeve.

The 12” single artwork, which I’m not sure was officially sanctioned
by Andy Warhol, nevertheless used the same imagery/headline from a New York Post
front page which he’d worked on as a graffitied screenprint in collaboration
with fellow artist Keith Haring. And so it seems to be pretty much credited to him.

Ciccone Youth: 12" single cover

The original newspaper page

(Credit: Flashbak.com)

Andy and Keith with screenprints

(Credit: Flashbak.com)

The 12” includes two other tracks, Tuff Titty Rap and their take on another Madonna song, ‘Burnin’ Up’. But
Into The Groovey is the one that does it for me – fast-moving and quite
stripped-back with its electronic rhythm and treated vocals, still recognisable
but at the same time completely, utterly different. I like that about a cover version – when you
know the song, and you know it really
well, but it’s moved so far away from the original that there’s only the merest
familiarity.

Monday, 9 January 2017

I’m not a fan of January; it doesn’t have a lot going for
it, does it? It’s no May.
May is a favourite; a month full
of promise and the knowledge that weeks and weeks of longer, warmer days
stretch out way ahead. May reassures me with
its carefree message of, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it in the Summer, there’s loads
of time yet! Relax!” and its multiple sneak previews of what’s to come – new leaves on
trees, new leaves to be turned over. Yes,
loooaaaaads of time yet.

Nor does January have
the sweetness of wistful goodbye kisses like my other favourite month, October. October paints
over the faded greens with juicy reds and lurid yellows and delivers surprise
presents every now and then: those mild, sunny days when you exclaim, “I can’t
believe it’s October!” I think of it like a lover reluctant to end our Summer fling. Oh, October, you tease!

January is none of those things, it’s just shades of grey interspersed with, well, other shades of grey. This year I’m finding it harder than ever
too. To be honest, I'm feeling a wee bit down. It's impossible to disassociate some things: January is the month in which two
of my good friends had their birthdays, and last year it was also the month in which one
of them died, the week
after Bowie. The other friend’s
unexpected death followed just a few months later (I may write about him again soon too). They were both only 57. I miss them hugely and there’s a big part of me which still can’t quite
believe they’ve both left - and of course all of me that wishes they hadn’t.

Anyway, in Januarys (Januaries?) past I would have sent A a customary email
on his celebratory date, saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY (nothing if not original), each character in a different
colour and font, kind of like rainbow-coloured Never Mind The Bollocks
lettering, which he would have completely got.
And he would have replied with a little note of thanks and surprise that
I’d remembered. “Must pop over
for a cup of tea soon,” one of us would have said (it was always me going over to his house, he had the bigger kitchen), and in the meantime more
messages would bounce across the ether, exchanging snippets and opinions, video
clips, what was in the news, our latest wildlife updates, random notes on art,
music and books, little bits of gossip about what was going on in the village,
sometimes a bit of rockbiz goss too from his own/sibling connections.

In January three years ago the closest we got to rockbiz goss was that someone new
was due to be moving into the big (and very expensive) historic house just down
the street from us both. “I’ve been told
he’s a ‘punk rock musician’”, A told me.

Well, of course, we went through the list of
possibilities. Who would we like it to
be?

“I wish it could be Mark E Smith but
I think he’s too attached to the North”, A emailed.

"It has to be someone with some wonga, doesn't it, so that rules out a few I'm sure... but not someone with enough that they'd move to California, so that rules out a few too. (I've been thinking... maybe Captain Sensible? He's already fairly local I believe???) Haha, I can't wait to find out!" I replied.

(Yes, I still have the emails...these are verbatim.)

News soon followed that our new 'punk rock musician' neighbour was called Jimmy.

Jimmy Pursey? we both mused, somewhat incredulously.

Then an update arrived from A that it wasn't a Jimmy after all, but a Tommy.

Tommy... Tommy....nope, drawing a blank here.

Then another update, "No, scrub that, it's not Tommy, it's Terry!"

Cue further email exchanges about Terry Chimes, who is apparently now a Chiropractor.

But by the time I popped over for a cuppa tea and a real-life
chat, it transpired that the new resident was neither Chiropractor nor punk rock musician,
instead someone neither of us had heard of and whose connection to the music
biz was not to either of our tastes at all… a session keyboard musician who composes music for TV.... A long way from Mark E Smith, that's for sure.

Life is full of disappointments!

Not my new neighbour

And well, like disappointment, you just have to accept death, don't you? There's nothing we can do to change things and we're only going to experience more of them because, if it's not our own trip into oblivion, it will be that of others we know and love (sorry). So I hold onto the memories and the fondness, the hopeful Mays and the sunny Octobers, and the little snatches of chat about non-punk rock musicians, amongst other things.

If A had lived to see this birthday I’m sure we’d have been
sharing more similar conversations, both in email and real life, and this January would not be quite so grey.

Images

Please note - whilst most images shown here have been taken from my own illustrations and photos or scans I have taken of my own possessions, if you would like me to remove any other images for any reason please contact me directly at the email address for this blog and I will immediately oblige.